The Fairie Games
by CanadianSnowflake
Summary: Based off 'The Hunger Games' with a OUAT spin: Emma Nolan is a girl from Kingdom 12. She is entered into the annual Fairie Games. There she must rely on her wits, strength and cunning to get out alive. What she doesn't expect is to meet dashing Killian Jones, from district two: he's cunning, smart, and most of all dangerous. Can she get out alive? Or will feelings mix?
1. Chapter 1

**an:/ Well this hit me. I don't know why, or how but I decided to write a CS Hunger Games fic. No it doesn't make sense and I kind of like that. Anyways, this first chapter will stick to the first of the Hunger Games almost verbatim in some parts, but the rest of the chapters shall not. Pinky promise. :) I hope you enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, nor do I own any of the characters created by OUAT. Thank you. **

* * *

_When I go up through the mowing field,  
The headless aftermath,  
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,  
Half closes the garden path._

_And when I come to the garden ground,_

_The whir of sober birds_  
_Up from the tangle of withered weeds_  
_Is sadder than any words_

_A tree beside the wall stands bare,_  
_But a leaf that lingered brown,_  
_Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,_  
_Comes softly rattling down._

_I end not far from my going forth_  
_By picking the faded blue_  
_Of the last remaining aster flower_  
_To carry again to you._

_-Robert Frost_

.

.

.

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Henry's warmth but finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress.

He must have had bad dreams and climbed in with our mother.

Of course he did.

This is the day of the reaping.

I prop myself up on one elbow. There's enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little brother, Henry, curled up on his side, cocooned in my mother's body, their cheeks pressed together.

In sleep, my mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Henry's face is as fresh as a raindrop, as strong as the man for which he was named.

My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

Laying at Henry's knees, guarding him, is the world's ugliest dog.

Mashed-in nose, half of one ear missing, eyes the color of rotting squash. (A real charmer if you ask me).

Henry named him Gold, insisting that his coat was the color as the precious metal which was a difficulty to come by these days.

He hates me. Or at least distrusts me.

Even though it was years ago, I think he still remembers how I tried to drown him in a bucket when Henry brought him home.

Scrawny puppy, belly swollen with worms, crawling with fleas and ticks.

The last thing I needed was another mouth to feed. But Henry begged so hard, cried even, I had to let him stay. (I couldn't deny Henry much of anything, really.)

It turned out okay.

Sometimes, when I clean a kill, I feed Gold the entrails. He has stopped growling at me.

Entrails. No growling.

This is the closest we will ever come to love.

I swing my legs off the bed and slide into my hunting boots.

Supple leather that has molded to my feet. I pull on riding trousers, a shirt, tuck my long honeyed blonde braid up into a cap, and grab my forage bag.

On the table, under a wooden bowl to protect it from hungry rats and cats alike, sits a perfect little goats cheese wrapped in basil leaves.

_Henry_, I think warmly.

I put the cheese carefully in my pocket as I slip outside.

Our part of Kingdom 12, or K12, nicknamed the Mines, is usually crawling with coal miners heading out to the morning shift at this hour.

Dwarves, with hunched shoulders, swollen knuckles, many who have long since stopped trying to scrub the coal dust out of their broken nails, the lines of their sunken faces and beards.

But today the black cinder streets are empty.

Shutters on the squat gray houses are closed. The reaping isn't until two. May as well sleep in.

If you can.

Our house is almost at the edge of the Mine.

I only have to pass a few gates to reach the heavily overgrown denseness that is the place called the Burning Grove.

The Burning Grove was given a proper name.

The ground always rose with smoke, as it was situated just over the mines.

The earth smelled charred, stale, of fresh fire.

Separating the Burning Grove from the Enchanted Forest, in fact enclosing all of K12, is a high chain-link fence topped with barbed-wire loops. In theory, it's supposed to be run by a Magic-Keeper, twenty-four hours a day as a deterrent to the predators that live in the woods—packs of wild dogs, lone cougars, bears — that used to threaten our streets.

But since we're lucky to get two or three hours of magic at night, enough to light the streets home, and to allow proper heating on the cold winter nights, it's normally safe to touch.

Magically charged or not, the fence has been successful at keeping the flesh-eaters out of K12. Inside the woods they roam freely, and there are added concerns like venomous snakes, rabid animals, and no real paths to follow.

Just in case, I listen for the steady thrum and the slight glow of gold, indicating magic.

It's as quiet as a stone.

Concealed by a clump of bushes, I flatten out on my belly and slide under a two-foot stretch that's been loose for years. There are several other weak spots in the fence, but this one is so close to home I almost always enter the woods here.

As soon as I'm in the trees, I retrieve a bow and sheath of arrows from a hollow log.

If you were unarmed, and if you didn't know what you were doing.

My mother had taught me the trade of shooting arrows and bows.

My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers.

My father could have made good money selling them, but if the Queen's-Men found out he would have been publicly executed for inciting a rebellion.

My bow, however, was how I managed to feed our small family, if that's what you wanted to call it.

The Enchanted Forest was my home.

It was my place of residency.

I had never stepped foot in water, but my feet touched the forest floor almost twice a day.

Even though trespassing in the woods is illegal and hunting carries the severest of penalties, more people would risk it if they had weapons.

And luckily for me, they didn't.

Most of the Queens-Men turn a blind eye to the few of us who hunt because they're as hungry for fresh meat as anybody is.

Simply put, there just wasn't enough food in K12 to feed everyone properly.

In walking the streets most people were heavily emaciated, gaunt looking skeletons that could spook even the bravest of souls.

In the fall, a few brave souls would wander into the Burning Field and just to the edge of the Enchanted Forest, to harvest apples.

But always in sight of the Field. Always close enough to run back to the safety of K12 if trouble arises.

When I was younger, I scared my parents to death, the things I would blurt out about K12, about the people who rule our Kingdom, The Enchanted Forest, from the far-off city called the Capitol.

Eventually I understood this would only lead us to more trouble.

So I learned to hold my tongue and to turn my features into an indifferent mask so that no one could ever read my thoughts.

Do my work quietly in school.

Make only polite small talk in the public market.

Discuss little more than trades in the Yard, which is the black market where I make most of my money. Even at home, where I am less pleasant, I avoid discussing tricky topics. Like the reap, or food shortages, or the Fairie Games.

In the woods waits the only person with whom I can be myself.

Graham.

I can feel the muscles in my face relaxing, my pace quickening as I climb the hills to our place, a rock ledge overlooking a small valley.

A thicket of gorse bushes protects it from unwanted eyes. The sight of him waiting there brings on a smile. Graham says I never smile except in the woods.

"Hello, Swan." Graham's slightly accented voice breaks through.

Swan, Graham's official nickname for me, when in reality my name was Emma.

Quickly after our meeting a swan started following me around the woods looking for handouts, it became his official nickname for me.

I finally had to kill the lynx because he scared off game. I almost regretted it because he wasn't bad company. But I got a decent price for his pelt and the meat was good too.

Graham pulls a loaf of bread from his bag.

_Real _bread, not our poor excuse for grain rationed bread.

"Wow, where'd you get this from?" I ask, sitting next to him on the rock.

He grins, showing his boyish charm.

"Bakery, of course," He says, handing it to me.

I hold it in my hand, like treasure and inhale.

The fragrance that makes my mouth flood with saliva. Fine bread like this is for special occasions.

"Mm, still warm," I say. He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to trade for it. "What did it cost you?"

"A small fox. Just a baby really," He offers.

"Think the old man was feeling sentimental this morning," says Graham.

I raise an eyebrow and give him a questioning look.

"Even wished me luck,"

"Wow, impressive," I say with a small smile.

"Well, we all feel a little closer today, don't we?" I ask, rolling my eyes in a manner that causes him to grin.

"Henry left us some cheese," I say pulling out the wrapped food.

His expression brightens at the treat. "Thank you, Henry. We'll have a real feast."

Graham pulls out a small carving knife and roughly drags it through the soft, white bread.

The aroma hits my nose and I have to remind myself to be patient. This was a treat.

Savor it, Emma.

I stare over the great expanse of the forest, letting the calming sounds of the mockingbirds fill my ears with their sweet music.

I can hear the stream, which lies just over five miles away.

I can hear the mountain lions, just rising from their homes in the neighboring and surrounding mountains.

The forest was my home, my true home.

I never really wanted to leave it.

"We could do it, you know," Graham says quietly. "What?" I ask.

"Leave the kingdom. Run off. Live in the woods. You and I, we could make it," says Graham.

I sigh.

We had our families to think about, our 'children'. That's what they were really.

Who would fill those mouths that are always asking for more? With both of us hunting daily, there are still nights when game has to be swapped for lard or shoelaces or wool, still nights when we go to bed with our stomachs growling.

The conversation feels all wrong. Leave? How could I leave Henry, who is the only person in the world I'm certain I love? And Graham is devoted to his family.

I sigh as Graham turns to look and appreciate the views I had just looked over.

"Forget it," He mutters.

The idea itself was preposterous.

How could we leave?

We couldn't.

A small, very selfish voice in my head told me we could very well leave.

We settle back in a nook in the rocks. From this place, we are invisible but have a clear view of the valley which is teeming with summer life, greens to gather, roots to dig, fish iridescent in the sunlight.

The day is glorious, with a blue sky and soft breeze.

The food's wonderful, with the cheese seeping into the warm bread and the berries bursting in our mouths.

Everything would be perfect if this really was a holiday, if all the day off meant was roaming the mountains with Graham, hunting for tonight's supper.

But instead we have to be standing in the square at two o'clock waiting for the names to be called out.

"Let's hunt, alright?" He asks, his voice surprisingly soft as he offers me his hand to help me up.

I take it.

I never felt weak around Graham, it was natural. Calm, and soothing.

Shooting my arrows with my bow felt natural as breathing to me now.

It was a comfort to feel the smooth wood gliding beneath my fingers shooting somewhere, far, far away.

We make out well. The predators ignore us on a day when easier, tastier prey abounds.

By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens and, best of all, a gallon of strawberries.

I found the patch a few years ago, but Graham had the idea to string mesh nets around it to keep out the animals.

"Ready huntsman?" I ask, looking to Graham, who carries the bag of fish on his shoulder.

We walk in silence back, creeping underneath the fence.

We go to the Yard, where we trade our food for money and other valuable things.

Graham and I divide our spoils, leaving two fish, a couple of loaves of good bread, greens, a quart of strawberries, salt, paraffin, and a bit of money for each.

"See you in the square," I say.

"Wear something pretty," he says flatly.

The irony of that statement isn't lost on me.

.

At home, I find my mother and brother are ready to go.

A tub of warm water waits for me. I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods and even wash my hair. To my surprise, my mother has laid out one of her own lovely dresses for me. A soft blue thing with matching shoes.

"Are you sure?" I ask. I'm trying to get past rejecting offers of help from her. For a while, I was so angry, I wouldn't allow her to do anything for me. And this is something special. Her clothes from her past are very precious to her.

Things from the past, are very special to her.

"Of course. Let's put your hair up, too," she says.

I let her towel-dry it and braid it up on my head. I can hardly recognize myself in the cracked mirror that leans against the wall.

Henry wears one of my father's old shirts, which looks much too big on him, and even pinned up he is having trouble keeping the tail in.

He wears slacks probably received from a neighbor whose son had just gotten too tall.

I hug him, because I know these next few hours will be terrible for him.

His first reaping. He's about as safe as you can get, since he's only entered once.

There's an odd system of entering.

You see, you enter your name in for something called stamps. Food stamps.

Everyone gets rations, but if you want a little more you get entered more times for more food.

You could die without it and die with it.

The kingdom's sick way of exerting their power and flexing it.

I hadn't let Henry enter, but I had entered four times a year since I was twelve, the official age of the Games.

I didn't do the math to make myself sick. (I'm entered twenty four times, Graham just touching forty)

I protect Henry in every way I can, but I'm powerless against the reaping.

The anguish I always feel when he's in pain wells up in my chest and threatens to register on my face.

I notice his shirt has pulled out of her slacks in the back again and force myself to stay calm.

"Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say, smoothing the shirt back in place.

I acted more as a mother to Henry than my own mother did.

"Quack," He jokingly says grinning up at me.

I laugh quietly, something only Henry can elicit out of me.

"Come on, let's eat," I say and plant a quick kiss on the top of his head.

The fish and greens are already cooking in a stew, but that will be for supper. We decide to save the strawberries and bakery bread, Graham had given me some of his, for this evening's meal, to make it special we say.

Instead we drink milk from Henry's goat, Archie, and eat the rough bread made from the Stamp grain, although no one has much appetite anyway.

At one o'clock, we head for the square.

Attendance is mandatory unless you are dying or severely ill, and they know if you are.

This evening, Queen's-Men will come around and check to see if this is the case. If not, you'll be imprisoned.

It's too bad, really, that they hold the reaping in the square — one of the few places in K12 that can be pleasant.

The town square is covered in a fine layer of sweet smelling grass, one of the only non-charred areas of the district.

Shops and people normally litter the streets as happily as you can get in K12.

Today, although there are bright banners and colorful balloons, there's a grimness that only comes on the day of the Reap.

The space gets tighter, more claustrophobic as people arrive. The square's quite large, but not enough to hold K12's booming population.

That always infuriated me: why bare children into this hell?

Was this the life you would want for your child? I understand times weren't always this way—but it doesn't make it right, nor is it ok.

Queen's-Men, who are always dressed in a black, glassish sort of armor, direct us by age and location into our sections: Oldest to Youngest, Mine to Town.

The Eighteen Year old's around me, from the Mine's nod once, our way of saying: good luck.

The Square gets more crowded as people begin to file in.

Everyone wears the same look on their face: slight annoyance and a bitter outlook.

We focus our attention on the temporary stage that is set up before the Magicinial Building.

It holds three chairs, a podium, and one large glass ball, one for the boys and girls' names. Twenty of them have Emma Nolan written on them in careful handwriting.

I take a deep breath before I see the Official's start to get on the stage.

First, there is Mayor Jiminy Cricket, who runs the town fairly. He's rather small, and has small tufts of orange hair sticking out from every which way on his head.

Next, there is Governor Grumpy, leader of the Mine community. Grumpy, a sour dwarf has been alive for hundreds of years. He was alive when Tabor was started, and he'll be alive long after it falls. So is the way of the dwarves.

Next, next is our Kingdom Representer: A bright woman, with black pixie cut hair, who reminds me of a cheerier version of my mother: Her name is Mary-Margaret.

Just as the town clock strikes two, the mayor steps up to the podium and begins to read.

It's the same story every year.

He tells of the history of Tabor, the country that rose up out of the ashes of a place that was once called The Enchanted Forest.

He lists the disasters, the droughts, the storms, the fires, the encroaching seas that swallowed up so much of the land, the brutal war for what little sustenance remained.

He speaks of the Ogre wars, the dragons, the plague, anything really to make us feel grateful for our leaders. (It does anything but.)  
The result was Tabor, a shining Capitol ringed by thirteen Kingdoms, which brought peace and prosperity to its citizens.

Then came the Dark Days, the uprising of the kingdoms against the Queen.

Twelve were defeated, the thirteenth obliterated. The Treaty of Treason gave us the new laws to guarantee peace and, as our yearly reminder that the Dark Days must never be repeated, it gave us the Fairie Games.

The rules of the Fairie Games are simple. In punishment for the uprising, each of the twelve kingdoms must provide one child, called a tribute, to participate.

The Twelve tributes will be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena that could hold anything from a burning desert to a frozen wasteland. Over a period of several weeks, the competitors must fight to the death. The last tribute standing wins.

To make it humiliating as well as torturous, the Queen requires us to treat the Fairie Games as a festivity, a sporting event pitting every district against the others. The last tribute alive receives a life of ease back home, and their district will be showered with prizes, largely consisting of food.

All year, the Capitol will show the winning district gifts of grain and oil and even delicacies like sugar while the rest of us battle starvation.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," intones the mayor.

"God Save the Queen," Our crowd monotonously repeats.

No one means it.

The Mayor calls Mary Margaret to the chair.

Bright and bubbly as ever, Mary Margaret trots to the podium and gives her signature, "Happy Fairie Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

She's met with silence.

It doesn't stop her, she still smiles.

"Let us congratulate our previous victors," She says.

In the sixty-nine years the Fairie Games have been around, we've won two of them.

The victors act as mentors to the tribute each year. It doesn't make sense, but its the way of the games, I suppose.

The first, by man named Albus Dumbles, a man who died long ago, or so rumor has it.

The second, by a man named Jefferson.

He's drunk and as mad as a hatter.

Once, a creator for the Red Queen of wonderland, now reduced to a bumbling, incoherent drunk.

What a great mentor to our tribute.

Mary Margaret goes on a bit about what an honor it is to be here, although everyone knows she's just aching to get bumped up to a better district where they have proper victors, who win games.

She's just too cheery for a district that is buried in darkness.

Through the crowd, I spot Graham looking back at me with a ghost of a smile. As reaping's go, this one at least has a slight entertainment factor.

But suddenly I am thinking of Graham and his forty-two names in that big glass ball and how the odds are not in his favor. Not compared to a lot of the kids. And maybe he's thinking the same thing about me because his face darkens and he turns away. "But there are still thousands of slips," I wish I could whisper to him.

"Thank you, Thank you," She finishes, her odd capitol accent coming out. She raises her hand, and the crowd almost leans forward in anticipation. It's killing us.

She reaches in, digs her hand deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. The crowd draws in a collective breath and then you can hear a pin drop, and I'm feeling nauseous and so desperately hoping that it's not me, that it's not me, that it's not me.

Mary Margaret crosses back to the podium, smoothes the slip of paper, and reads out the name in a clear voice. And it's not me.

It's Henry Nolan.

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**an:/ Well that's the first chapter folks. ****PLEASE REVIEW TO TELL ME IF I SHOULD CONTINUE. THERE WILL BE CS NEXT CHAPTER OR SOON. I PROMISE. PLEASE REVIEW**

THANK YOU!


	2. Chapter 2

_The Headless Aftermath_

**an:/ Wow wow wow thank you so much for all the reviews! :) I take good/bad reviews too, so honesty is great. I am so amazed by the love my little story is getting so far, so thank you. This is the second chapter, a wee bit shorter than the first, due to the nature of it. Thank you all so much, + Enjoy! **

**I am also going to answer a Question: **

**Mary Margaret is not Emma's mother. Just like in Storybrook, they're two 'different' people. Same here. Snow White is Emma's Mother/ Prince Charming her father. **

**There is only one tribute, for now, because of my story line, and this will be explained later. Any other questions can be answered too. :) Thank you for the review. :) Enjoy! **

* * *

Clearing

_Do not try to save_

_the whole world_

_or do anything grandiose. Instead, create_

_a clearing_

_in the dense forest_

_of your life_

_and wait there_

_patiently,_

_until the song_

_that is your life_

_falls into your own cupped hands and you recognize and greet it. Only then will you know_

_how to give yourself_

_to this world_

_so worth of rescue._

Martha Postlewaite

.

.

.

One time, long before I met Graham, when I was in a blind in a tree, waiting motionless for game to wander by, I dozed off and fell ten feet to the ground, landing on my back. It was as if the impact had knocked every wisp of air from my lungs, and I lay there struggling to inhale, to exhale, to do anything.

That's how I felt when I heard Henry's name called.

That's how I feel now, trying to remember how to breathe, unable to speak, totally stunned as the name bounces around the inside of my skull. Someone is gripping my arm, a boy from the Mine, and I think maybe I started to fall and he caught me.

There must have been some mistake. This can't be happening. Henry was one slip of paper in thousands!

One slip. One slip in thousands. The odds had been entirely in his favor. But it hadn't mattered.

I wonder, somewhere in my inner monologue if some God up there is laughing, mocking me right now.

Somewhere far away, I can hear the crowd murmuring unhappily as they always do when a twelve-year-old gets chosen because no one thinks this is fair.

But for anyone, any child to get chosen, it's not fair.

It's the Queen's way, I suppose.

And then I see him—his face flushed with nervousness, his brown hair parted, his lip trembling slightly in a way that tells me he's trying not to cry.

It's his untucked shirt in the back, his ducktail, that snaps me out of it.

"Henry!" The strangled cry comes out of my throat, and my muscles begin to move again.

"Henry!" I don't need to shove through the crowd.

The other kids make way immediately allowing me a straight path to the stage. I reach him just as he is about to mount the steps.

With one sweep of my arm, I push him behind me.

"I volunteer!" I gasp. "I volunteer as tribute!"

Pure silence draws over the crowd.

K12 hasn't had a volunteer in years…not as the games had gotten deadlier in the past years.

In some kingdom's, in which winning the reaping is such a great honor, people are eager to risk their lives, the volunteering is complicated.

But in K12, where the word _tribute_ is pretty much synonymous with the word _corpse_, volunteers are all but extinct.

"Lovely…" Mary Margaret trails off, unsure herself.

In that moment I feel kind of badly for the woman who each year is around a child who could be full of life and energy and has to deliver a corpse home each year.

But that's dashed when her smile comes to her face, albeit somewhat forced.

The Governor is looking at me with a pained expression on his face.

He doesn't know me really, but there's a faint recognition there.

I am the girl who brings the strawberries.

The girl his daughter might have spoken of on occasion.

The girl who five years ago stood on the stage, huddled together with her mother and sister, as he presented her, the oldest child, with a medal of valor.

A medal for her father, vaporized in the mines.

Does he remember that?

The Mayor is too stunned to say anything, as are most people.

"Let her come forward," The Governor says, his voice somewhat gruff.

Henry is screaming hysterically behind me. He's wrapped his skinny arms around me like a vice.

"No, Emma! No! You can't go!"

"Henry, let go," I say harshly. This was upsetting me, _he _was upsetting me, and I didn't want to cry. Not now.

When they televise the replay of the reaping's tonight, everyone will make note of my tears, and I'll be marked as an easy target. A weakling. I will give no one that satisfaction, especially the Queen. Not in front of the Queen, who could see all of this. I wasn't giving the capitol anymore than they deserved.

"Let go!"

I can feel someone pulling him from my back. I turn and see Graham has lifted Henry off the ground and he's thrashing in his arms.

"Up you go, Swan," he says, in a voice he's fighting to keep steady, and then he carries Henry off toward my mother. I steel myself and climb the steps.

"Well, bravo!" gushes Mary Margaret. "That's the spirit of the Games!" She's pleased to finally have a district with a little action going on in it. "What's your name?"

I swallow hard. "Emma Nolan," I say.

"I bet my buttons that was your brother. Don't want him to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" trills Mary Margaret.

To the everlasting credit of the people of District 12, not one person claps.

So instead of acknowledging applause, I stand there unmoving while they take part in the boldest form of dissent they can manage.

Silence.

Which says we do not agree. We do not condone. All of this is wrong.

Then something unexpected happens. At least, I don't expect it because I don't think of K12 as a place that cares about me. A place that cared about anyone.

But a shift has occurred since I stepped up to take Henry's place, and now it seems I have become someone precious.

At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me.

It is an old and rarely used gesture of our Kingdom, occasionally seen at funerals.

It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.

I put my hands behind my back and stare into the distance.

I can see the hills I climbed this morning with Graham. For a moment, I yearn for something . . . the idea of us leaving the kingdom...making our way in the woods...but I know I was right about not running off. Because who else would have volunteered for Henry?

Henry who believed in _everyone_.

There weren't good people in the Fairie Games.

And in that moment I realize I made the right decision.

Henry deserved better.

There was only one winner, and when you're put to the test of dying or surviving, we all know how that works.

The Mayor begins to read the long, dull Treaty of Treason as he does every year at this point — it's required — but I'm not listening to a word.

I think of my father, for some odd reason—and I let my mind wander.

I think back to the months after his death.

It was during the worst time. My father had been killed in the mine accident three months earlier in the bitterest January anyone could remember. The numbness of his loss had passed, and the pain would hit me out of nowhere, doubling me over, racking my body with sobs. _Where are you?_ I would cry out in my mind. _Where have you gone?_ Of course, there was never any answers.

My father and I were close.

When my mother used to be happier, she called us two peas in a pod.

He taught me _everything_.

How to fish, how the sword fight, how to read, how to be undetected: all skills I would use in the games.

I only wish he had been around to teach Henry.

My mother was around. She was expected to get up, _be the woman my father needed her to be. _

Be the woman, Henry and I needed her to be.

Only she didn't. She didn't do anything but sit propped up in a chair or, more often, huddled under the blankets on her bed, eyes fixed on some point in the distance.

Once in a while, she'd stir, get up as if moved by some urgent purpose, only to then collapse back into stillness. No amount of pleading from Henry seemed to affect her.

So I took over the jobs—I began to raise Henry.

It was hard, but I learned long ago that if you have high walls, you can do anything. Almost.

I realize I am staring at my mother.

My mother who could have done so much for us, yet chose to do so little.

My mother, who could have _tried _to work.

My mother who did _nothing_.

It's bitterness that seems to creep up on me unexpectedly.

I know I won't see them again—it's the way of the games.

I turn my gaze back to face the crowd as the anthem of the Capitol plays.

This is the point where people would look to the exit, trying to find some reprieve from the harrowing experience that is the reap.

Everyone is motionless.

"Emma Nolan, may the odd's ever be in your favor," Grumpy's rough voice says, breaking me out of my thoughts.

The odds have not been very dependable of late.

.

.

.**  
**The moment the anthem ends, I am taken into custody.

I don't mean handcuffed or anything, but a group of Queen's-Men takes through the front door of the Magicinal Building.

Maybe tributes have tried to escape in the past. I've never seen that happen though.

Once inside, I'm conducted to a room and left alone.

It's the richest place I've ever been in, with thick, deep carpets and a velvet couch and chairs. I know velvet because my mother has a dress with a collar made of the stuff. When I sit on the couch, I can't help running my fingers over the fabric repeatedly.

It helps to calm me as I try to prepare for the next hour.

The time allotted for the tribute to say goodbye to their loved ones.

I cannot afford to get upset, to leave this room with puffy eyes and a red nose.

_Crying is not an option. _

There will be more cameras at the train station.

My brother and my mother come first.

I reach out to Henry and he climbs on my lap, his arms around my neck, head on my shoulder, just like he did when he was a toddler.

My mother sits beside me and wraps her arms around us. For a few minutes, we say nothing.

Then I start telling them all the things they must remember to do, now that I will not be there to do them for them.

Henry is not to take any Stamps.

They can get by, if they're careful, on selling Henry's goat milk and cheese and the small apothecary business my mother now runs for the people in the Mine.

Graham will get her the herbs she doesn't grow herself, but she must be very careful to describe them because he's not as familiar with them as I am.

He'll also bring them game — he and I made a pact about this a year or so ago — and will probably not ask for compensation, but they should thank him with some kind of trade, like milk or medicine.

I don't bother suggesting Henry learn to hunt.

I tried to teach him a couple of times and it was disastrous.

I wasn't patient like my father, and Henry was not as patient as I was with a bow.

I could have tried sword fighting, but we didn't have swords like we would have once upon a time.

But he makes out well with his goat, so I concentrate on that.

When I am done with instructions about fuel, and trading, and staying in school, I turn to my mother and grip her arm, hard.

"Listen to me. Are you listening to me?" She nods, alarmed by my intensity. She must know what's coming.

"You can't leave again," I say.

My mother's eyes find the floor. "I know. I won't. I couldn't help what—"

"Well, you have to help it this time. You can't clock out and leave Henry on his own. There's no me now to keep you both alive. It doesn't matter what happens. Whatever you see on the screen. You have to promise me you'll fight through it!" My voice has risen to a shout.

In it is all the anger, all the fear I felt at her abandonment.

She has to know.

She pulls her arm from my grasp, moved to anger herself now.

"I was ill. I could have treated myself if I'd had the medicine I have now."

That part about her being ill might be true.

I've seen her bring back people suffering from immobilizing sadness since.

Perhaps it is a sickness, but it's one we can't afford.

"Then take it. And take care of her!" I say.

"I'll be all right, Emma," says Henry, clasping my hand in his hands.

"But you have to take care, too. You're so fast and brave. Maybe you can win." His eager, honest, believing, hopeful, voice says.

I can't win.

Henry must know that in his heart.

The competition will be far beyond my abilities.

Kids from wealthier kingdom's, where winning is a huge honor, who've been trained their whole lives for this.

Boys who are two to three times my size.

Girls who know twenty different ways to kill you with a knife.

Oh, there'll be people like me, too.

People to weed out before the real fun begins.

"Maybe," I say, because I can hardly tell my mother to carry on if I've already given up myself.

Besides, it isn't in my nature to go down without a fight, even when things seem insurmountable.

"Then we'd be rich as Jefferson."

"I don't care if we're rich. I just want you to come home. You will try, won't you? Really, really try?" asks Henry.

"Really, really try. I swear it," I say. And I know, because of Henry, I'll have to.

And then the Queen's-Men is at the door, signaling our time is up, and we're all hugging one another so hard it hurts and all I'm saying is "I love you. I love you both." And they're saying it back and then the Queen's-Men orders them out and the door closes.

I bury my head in one of the velvet pillows as if this can block the whole thing out.

I realize you can't block this out.

The next person to come in, is quite unexpected: the baker.

I remember once having been friends with his son, but his son died a while ago.

My father was friends with the baker.

I think his name is Daniel.

The baker sits awkwardly on the edge of one of the plush chairs. He's a big, broad-shouldered man with burn scars from years at the ovens.

He pulls a white paper package from his jacket pocket and holds it out to me. I open it and find cookies. These are a luxury we can never afford.

"Thank you," I say.

The baker's not a very talkative man in the best of times, and today he has no words at all.

"I had some of your bread this morning. My friend Graham gave you a squirrel for it." He nods, as if remembering the squirrel.

"Not your best trade," I say. He shrugs as if it couldn't possibly matter.

Then I can't think of anything else, so we sit in silence until a Queen's-Men summons him.

He rises and coughs to clear his throat. "I'll keep an eye on the little lad. Make sure he's eating."

I feel some of the pressure in my chest lighten at his words.

People deal with me, but they are genuinely fond of Henry. Maybe there will be enough fondness to keep him alive.

Finally, Graham is here and maybe there is nothing romantic between us, but when he opens his arms I don't hesitate to go into them. His body is familiar to me — the way it moves, the smell of wood smoke, even the sound of his heart beating I know from quiet moments on a hunt — but this is the first time I really feel it, lean and hard-muscled against my own.

"Listen," he says. "Getting a knife should be pretty easy, but you've got to get your hands on a bow. That's your best chance."

"They don't always have bows," I say, thinking of the year there were only horrible spiked maces that the tributes had to bludgeon one another to death with.

"Then make one," says Graham. "Even a weak bow is better than no bow at all."

I have tried copying my mother's old bows with poor results. It's not that easy. Even she had to scrap her own work sometimes.

"I don't even know if there'll be wood," I say.

Another year, they tossed everybody into a landscape of nothing but boulders and sand and scruffy bushes.

I particularly hated that year.

Many contestants were bitten by venomous snakes or went insane from thirst.

"There's almost always some wood," Graham says. "Since that year half of them died of cold. Not much entertainment in that."

A true statement: the Queen wanted entertainment.

"Yes, there's usually some," I say.

"Emma, it's just hunting. You're the best hunter I know," says Graham.

"It's not just hunting. They're armed. They think," I say.

"So do you. And you've had more practice. Real practice," he says. "You know how to kill."

"Not people," Is my soft response.

"How different can it be, really?" says Graham grimly. The awful thing is that if I can forget they're people, it will be no different at all.

He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a gold pin.

It shimmers slightly in the golden sunlight that breaks through the window pane.

"They let you wear one thing from your district in the arena. One thing to remind you of home. Will you wear this?" He asks.

"I meant to give it to you, for your birthday, but…well," He trails off rather uncomfortably.

I take the pin from him without a second thought.

I grin at him.

"Swan," He says, tracing a finger down my cheek.

I realize I've seen the pin before—on his mother, Madge. His mother who died years ago, leaving four rambunctious boys and a drunk father behind. Graham and I had more in common than we'd ever admit.

"Her pin?" I say. Wearing a token from my district is about the last thing on my mind.

"Here, I'll put it on your dress, all right?" Graham doesn't wait for an answer, he just leans in and fixes the bird to my dress.

"Promise you'll wear it into the arena, Emma?" He asks. "Promise?"

"Yes," I say, my voice slightly thick.

The Queen's-Men are back too soon and Graham asks for more time, but they're taking him away and I start to panic. The first I've let myself since I volunteered.

"Don't let them starve!" I cry out, clinging to his hand.

"I won't! You know I won't! Emma, remember I —" he says, and they yank us apart and slam the door and I'll never know what it was he wanted me to remember.

It's a short ride from the Magicinal Building to the train station. I've never been in a car before. Rarely even ridden in wagons. In the Mine, we travel on foot.

I've been right not to cry. The station is swarming with reporters with their insectlike cameras trained directly on my face.

But I've had a lot of practice at wiping my face clean of emotions and I do this now.

I catch a glimpse of myself on the television screen on the wall that's airing my arrival live and feel gratified that I appear almost bored.

I have to stand for a few minutes in the doorway of the train while the cameras gobble up my image, then I'm allowed inside and the doors close mercifully behind me.

The train begins to move at once.

The speed initially takes my breath away.

Of course, I've never been on a train, as travel between the kingdom's is forbidden except for officially sanctioned duties.

For us, that's mainly transporting coal. But this is no ordinary coal train. It's one of the high-speed Capitol models that average 250 miles per hour. My journey to the Capitol will take less than a day.

The tribute train is fancier than even the room in the Magicinal Building.

As a tribute, we are given our own chambers that have a bedroom, a dressing area, and a private bathroom with hot and cold running water. I don't have hot water at home, unless I boil it.

There are drawers filled with fine clothes, and Mary Margaret tells me to do anything I want, wear anything I want, everything is at my disposal.

Just be ready for supper in an hour.

I peel off my mother's blue dress and take a hot shower.

I've never had a shower before. It's like being in a summer rain, only warmer. I dress in a dark green shirt and pants.

At the last minute, I remember Madge's little gold pin. For the first time, I get a good look at it. It's as if someone fashioned a small golden bird and then attached a ring around it. The bird is connected to the ring only by its wing tips. I suddenly recognize it.

A Swan.

They're funny birds and something of a slap in the face to the Capitol.

During the rebellion, the Capitol bred a series of genetically altered animals as weapons.

The common term for them was muttations, or sometimes mutts for short.

One was a special bird called a mockingbird that had the ability to memorize and repeat whole human conversations.

They were homing birds, exclusively male, that were released into regions where the Capitol's enemies were known to be hiding.

After the birds gathered words, they'd fly back to centers to be recorded. It took people awhile to realize what was going on in the districts, how private conversations were being transmitted.

Then, of course, the rebels fed the Capitol endless lies, and the joke was on it. So the centers were shut down and the birds were abandoned to die off in the wild.

But they didn't die—they mated with ducks, and somehow produced a species of Swan.

They had lost the ability to enunciate words but could still mimic a range of human vocal sounds, from a child's high-pitched warble to a man's deep tones.

And they could re-create songs.

Not just a few notes, but whole songs with multiple verses, if you had the patience to sing them and if they liked your voice.

My father was particularly fond of Swan's.

When we went hunting, he would whistle or sing complicated songs to them and, after a polite pause, they'd always sing back.

Not everyone is treated with such respect.

But whenever my father sang, all the birds in the area would fall silent and listen.

His voice was that beautiful, high and clear and so filled with life it made you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

I could never bring myself to continue the practice after he was gone.

Still, there's something comforting about the little bird.

It's like having a piece of my father with me, protecting me.

I fasten the pin onto my shirt, and with the dark green fabric as a background, I can almost imagine the Swan flying through the trees with his brother's and sisters.

I was a lonely swan now, I guess.

I wasn't opposed to being alone—I had hunted alone for years.

I just had to get reacclimatized to it, I guess.

Mary Margaret comes to get me for supper.

I follow her through the narrow, rocking corridor into a dining room with polished paneled walls. There's a table where all the dishes are highly breakable.

There is an empty chair for myself, one for Mary Margaret, and one for Jefferson.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I say with a shrug.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Mary Margaret.

I think she's relieved by Jefferson's absence, and who can blame her?

The supper comes in courses. A thick carrot soup, green salad, lamb chops and mashed potatoes, cheese and fruit, a chocolate cake. Throughout the meal, Mary Margaret keeps reminding me to save space because there's more to come.

But I'm stuffing myself because I've never had food like this, so good and so much, and because probably the best thing I can do between now and the Games is put on a few pounds.

"At least, you have decent manners," says Mary Margaret as we're finishing the main course.

"The boy last year ate everything with his hands like a savage. It completely upset my digestion."

The boy last year was a boy from the Mine who'd never, not one day of his life, had enough to eat.

And when he did have food, table manners were surely the last thing on his mind.

My mother taught Henry and I to eat properly, so yes, I can handle a fork and knife.

But I hate Mary Margaret's comment so much I make a point of eating the rest of my meal with my fingers.

Then I wipe my hands on the tablecloth.

This makes her purse her lips tightly together.

Jefferson stumbles into the room, his brown eyes bleary and tired.

"Did I miss dinner?" He slurs.

I can't hide my small smile. Some rebelled in harmful ways, Jefferson rebelled by being incoherent.

"Yes," hisses Mary Margaret. And at my smile she looks over, her brown eyes narrowing slightly,"How odd you find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Jefferson can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

I don't change my expression.

"So laugh away!" says Mary Margaret. She hops up in her pointy and flees the room.

* * *

**an:/ And that is chapter 2, very short meaning I am very sorry. :( But chapter three is going to be long! ****please keep the reviews coming, they actually do help quite a bit. Thank you!**


	3. Chapter 3

**an:/ oh my gosh I love you guys. Thank you for pointing out some of my mistakes, because I mixed up THG with OUAT! I am ****SO SORRY FOR THE CONFUSION ****:( I hope this chapter makes up for it because our favorite pirate is in it. :) I hope this makes things better. I updated the previous chapters and fixed it. ****LOOKING FOR A BETA READER IF POSSIBLE WOULD REALLY APPRECIATE IT :) **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, nor do I own any of the characters created by OUAT. Thank you.**

* * *

I thought the Earth Remembered Me:

_I thought the Earth remembered me, _

_she took me back so tenderly, _

_arranging her dark skirts, her pockets_

_full of lichens and seeds. _

_I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed, _

_nothing between me and the white fire of the stars, _

_but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths _

_among the branches of the perfect trees. _

_All night I heard the small kingdoms_

_breathing around me, the insects, _

_and the birds who do their work in the darkness. _

_All night I rose and fell, as if in water, _

_grappling with a luminous doom. _

_By morning, I had vanished at least a dozen times _

_into something better. _

Unknown.

.

.

.

My mother had a book she'd brought with her from the apothecary shop.

The pages were made of old parchment and covered in ink drawings of plants.

Neat handwritten blocks told their names, where to gather them, when they came in bloom, their medical uses.

But my father added other entries to the book. Plants for eating, not healing. Dandelions, pokeweed, wild onions, pines.

Henry and I spent the rest of the night poring over those pages.

When my father died, I thanked whatever Gods were out there for him writing in that book.

For giving me the courage to go into those woods.

The woods became my savior, and each day I went a bit farther into its arms.

It was slow-going at first, but I was determined to feed us.

I stole eggs from nests, caught fish in nets, sometimes managed to shoot a squirrel or rabbit for stew, and gathered the various plants that sprung up beneath my feet.

Plants are tricky.

Many are edible, but one false mouthful and you're dead.

I checked and double-checked the plants I harvested with my father's pictures.

I kept us alive.

Any sign of danger, a distant howl, the inexplicable break of a branch, sent me flying back to the fence at first.

Then I began to risk climbing trees to escape the wild dogs that quickly got bored and moved on.

Bears and cats lived deeper in, perhaps disliking the sooty reek of our kingdom.

I don't blame them.

What we didn't absolutely have to eat, I began to trade at the Yard.

It was frightening to enter that place without my father at my side, but people had respected him, and they accepted me.

Game was game after all, no matter who'd shot it. Besides, people were too hungry to turn down food.

I also sold at the back doors of the wealthier clients in town, trying to remember what my father had told me and learning a few new tricks as well.

The butcher would buy my rabbits but not squirrels.

The baker enjoyed squirrel but would only trade for one if his wife wasn't around.

The Head Queen's-Men loved wild turkey.

The Gov. had a passion for strawberries.

In late summer, I was washing up in a pond when I noticed the plants growing around me.

I began to notice life springing around the forests that I had inhabited since my father's death.

As if my presence made the forest grow.

Slowly, my mother returned to us.

She began to clean and cook and preserve some of the food I brought in for winter.

People traded us or paid money for her medical remedies.

One day, I heard her singing.

Henry was thrilled to have her back, but I kept watching, waiting for her to disappear on us again.

I didn't trust her. And some small gnarled place inside me hated her for her weakness, for her neglect, for the months she had put us through.

Henry forgave her, but I had taken a step back from my mother, put up a wall to protect myself from needing her, and nothing was ever the same between us again.

Now I was going to die without that ever being set right.

I shoot up in bed, my chest heaving as I look at the small illuminated clock next to me.

Just past two in the morning.

For a while I stand staring out the train window, wishing I could open it again, but unsure of what would happen at such high speed. In the distance, I see the lights of another kingdom, just behind us.

I picture the families sleeping, except for one. Perhaps the one family had lost their hunter too.

A hunter who would possibly, and most likely be dead in the first few days of the Games.

I imagine my home, with its shutters drawn tight.

What are they doing now, my mother and Henry? Were they able to eat supper? The fish stew and the strawberries? Or did it lay untouched on their plates?

Did they watch the recap of the day's events on the battered old TV that sits on the table against the wall? Surely, there were more tears.

Is my mother holding up, being strong for Henry? Or has she already started to slip away, leaving the weight of the world on my brother's fragile shoulders?

I turn from the window, trying to calm the raging thoughts plaguing my mind.

I was being ridiculous.

Could Graham and I have been eating blackberries only this morning? It seems like a lifetime ago.

Like a long dream that deteriorated into a nightmare.

Maybe, if I go to sleep, I will wake up back in K12, where I belong.

If I'm going to cry, now is the time to do it. By morning, I'll be able to wash the damage done by the tears from my face.

But no tears come.

I'm too tired or too numb to cry.

The only thing I feel is a desire to be somewhere else.

So I let the train rock me into oblivion.

.

Gray light is leaking through the curtains when the rapping rouses me.

I hear Mary Margaret's voice, calling me to rise.

"Up, up, up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!"

I try and imagine, for a moment, what it must be like inside that woman's head. What thoughts fill her waking hours? What dreams come to her at night? I have no idea.

I put the green outfit back on since it's not really dirty, just slightly crumpled from spending the night on the floor. My fingers trace the circle around the little gold swan and I think of the woods, and of my father, and of my mother and Henry waking up, having to get on with things.

I slept in the elaborate braided hair my mother did for the reaping and it doesn't look too bad, so I just leave it up. It doesn't matter. We can't be far from the Capitol now. And once we reach the city, my stylist will dictate my look for the opening ceremonies tonight anyway. I just hope I get one who doesn't think nudity is the last word in fashion.

"Sit down! Sit down!" says Jefferson, waving me over.

The moment I slide into my chair I'm served an enormous platter of food. Eggs, ham, piles of fried potatoes. A tureen of fruit sits in ice to keep it chilled.

The basket of rolls they set before me would keep my family going for a week.

There's an elegant glass of orange juice. At least, I think it's orange juice.

I've only even tasted an orange once, at New Year's when my father bought one as a special treat.

A cup of coffee.

My mother adores coffee, which we could almost never afford, but it only tastes bitter and thin to me. A rich brown cup of something I've never seen.

"They call it hot chocolate," says Jefferson . "It's good."

There's a whipped topping on the top.

I see ground cinnamon and sprinkle some of that onto the cup.

I instantly am relieved with a smooth, woodsy tasting liquid rushing down my throat.

I look and see Jefferson downing a glass of a reddish liquid, and judging by the smell its some sort of spirit.

I've seen Jefferson in the yard, drinking and throwing his copious amounts of money to the liquor woman.

I realize I detest Jefferson. No wonder the K12 tributes never stand a chance.

It isn't just that we've been underfed and lack training.

Some of our tributes have still been strong enough to make a go of it.

But we rarely get sponsors and he's a big part of the reason why.

The rich people who back tributes — either because they're betting on them or simply for the bragging rights of picking a winner — expect someone classier than Jefferson to deal with.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," I say to Jefferson.

"Here's some advice. Stay alive," says Jefferson before he starts laughing.

Jefferson goes back to reach for the spirits, I drive my knife into the table between his hand and the bottle, barely missing his fingers.

He stares at me, in utter disbelief.

"Well, what's this?" says Jefferson. "Did I actually get a fighter this year?"

"Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?" He asks, raising an eyebrow.

The bow and arrow is my weapon.

But I've spent a fair amount of time throwing knives as well.

Sometimes, if I've wounded an animal with an arrow, it's better to get a knife into it, too, before I approach it.

I realize that if I want Jefferson's attention, this is my moment to make an impression.

I yank the knife out of the table, get a grip on the blade, and then throw it into the wall across the room.

I was actually just hoping to get a good solid stick, but it lodges in the seam between two panels, making me look a lot better than I am.

"All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you," says Jefferson. "But you have to do exactly what I say."

I open my mouth to ask a question, but Jefferson holds his hand up.

"One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist," says Jefferson.

"But —" I begin.

"No buts. Don't resist," says Jefferson. He takes the bottle of spirits from the table and leaves the car. As the door swings shut behind him, the car goes dark.

There are still a few lights inside, but outside it's as if night has

fallen again.

I realize we must be in the tunnel that runs up through the mountains into the Capitol. The mountains form a natural barrier between the Capitol and the eastern districts. It is almost impossible to enter from the east except through the tunnels.

This geographical advantage was a major factor in the districts losing the war that led to my being a tribute today.

Since the rebels had to scale the mountains, they were easy targets for the Capitol's air forces.

The tunnel goes on and on and I think of the tons of rock separating me from the sky, and my chest tightens. I hate being encased in stone this way. It reminds me of the mines and my father, trapped, unable to reach sunlight, buried forever in the darkness.

I run to the window to see what we've only seen on television, the Capitol, the ruling city of Tabor. The cameras haven't lied about its grandeur. If anything, they have not quite captured the magnificence of the glistening buildings in a rainbow of hues that tower into the air, the shiny cars that roll down the wide paved streets, the oddly dressed people with bizarre hair and painted faces who have never missed a meal. All the colors seem artificial, the pinks too deep, the greens too bright, the yellows painful to the eyes, like the flat round disks of hard candy we can never afford to buy at the tiny sweet shop in 12.

The people begin to point at me, eagerly as they recognize a tribute train rolling into the city. I step away from the window, sickened by their excitement, knowing they can't wait to watch me die.

I see a large banner off in the distance with the large words:

**MAY THE ODDS EVER BE IN YOUR FAVOR**

I snort.

.

R-i-i-i-p! I grit my teeth as Aurora, a woman with dark purple hair and gold tattoos above her eyebrows, yanks a strip of Fabric from my leg tearing out the hair beneath it. She had this sort of unawareness about her. "Sorry!" she pipes in her silly Capitol accent. "You're just so hairy!"

Why do these people speak in such a high pitch?

Why do their jaws barely open when they talk?

Why do the ends of their sentences go up as if they're asking a question?

Odd vowels, clipped words, and always a hiss on the letter **_s_**... no wonder it's impossible not to mimic them.

Aurora makes what's supposed to be a sympathetic face.

"Good news, though. This is the last one. Ready?" I get a grip on the edges of the table I'm seated on and nod.

The final swathe of my leg hair is uprooted in a painful jerk.

I've been in the Remake Center for more than three hours and I still haven't met my stylist.

Apparently she has no interest in seeing me until Aurora and the other members of my prep team have addressed some obvious problems.

This has included scrubbing down my body with a gritty loam that has removed not only dirt but at least three layers of skin, turning my nails into uniform shapes, and primarily, ridding my body of hair.

My legs, arms, torso, underarms, and parts of my eyebrows have been stripped of the hair, leaving me like a plucked bird, ready for roasting.

I don't like it.

My skin feels sore and tingling and intensely vulnerable.

But I have kept my side of the bargain with Jefferson, and no objection has crossed my lips.

"You're doing very well," says some guy named Whale.

He gives his orange corkscrew locks a shake and applies a fresh coat of purple lipstick to his mouth.

"If there's one thing we can't stand, it's a whiner. Grease her down!"

Aurora and Superior, a plump woman whose entire body has been dyed a pale shade of pea green, rub me down with a lotion that first stings but then soothes my raw skin.

Then they pull me from the table, removing the thin robe I've been allowed to wear off and on.

I stand there, completely naked, as the three circle me, wielding tweezers to remove any last bits of hair.

I know I should be embarrassed, but they're so unlike people that I'm no more self-conscious than if a trio of oddly colored birds were pecking around my feet.

The three step back and admire their work. "Excellent! You almost look like a human being now!" says Whale, and they all laugh.

I force my lips up into a smile to show how grateful I am.

"Thank you," I say sweetly. "We don't have much cause to look nice in Kingdom Twelve."

This wins them over completely. "Of course, you don't, you poor darling!" says Superior clasping her hands together in distress for me.

"But don't worry," says Aurora. "By the time Ruby is through with you, you're going to be absolutely gorgeous!"

"We promise! You know, now that we've gotten rid of all the hair and filth, you're not horrible at all!" says Whale encouragingly.

"Let's call Ruby!"

They dart out of the room. It's hard to hate my prep team. They're such total idiots. And yet, in an odd way, I know they're sincerely trying to help me.

I look at the cold white walls and floor and resist the impulse to retrieve my robe. But this Ruby, my stylist, will surely make me remove it at once. Instead my hands go to my hairdo, the one area of my body my prep team had been told to leave alone.

My fingers stroke the silky braids my mother so carefully arranged.

My mother.

I left her blue dress and shoes on the floor of my train car, never thinking about retrieving them, of trying to hold on to a piece of her, of home.

Now I wish I had.

"They're beautiful," A female's voice says.

I turn and am met with a pretty woman.

Her hair is dark brown, with streaks of red running through the front layers.

Her eyes are a deep chestnut brown, reminding me of something that I just couldn't place my finger on.

She wears an outfit that was slightly too tight for my tastes…but somehow suited her. She looked rebellious…dangerous even.

"I'm Ruby, your stylist," She says with a twinkle in her eye.

I go to open my mouth, but she stops me. "Emma Nolan, we all know who you are." She says.

I shut my mouth at that statement.

Ruby walks around my naked body, not touching me, but taking in every inch of it with her dark eyes.

Like a wolf stalking her pray.

I resist the impulse to cross my arms over my chest. "Who did your hair?"

"My mother," I say.

"It's beautiful. Classic really. And in almost perfect balance with your profile. She has very clever fingers," She says.

I had expected someone flamboyant, someone older trying desperately to look young, someone who viewed me as a piece of meat to be prepared for a platter. Ruby has met none of these expectations.

"You're new, aren't you? I don't think I've seen you before," I say.

Most of the stylists are familiar, constants in the ever-changing pool of tributes.

Some have been around my whole life.

"Yes, this is my first year in the Games," says Ruby.

"So they gave you district twelve." I conclude.

She slides her dark eyes up to meet my lighter ones.

"I asked for District Twelve," She says without further explanation. "Why don't you put on your robe and we'll have a chat."

Pulling on my robe, I follow her through a door into a sitting room.

Two red couches face off over a low table.

Three walls are blank, the fourth is entirely glass, providing a window to the city.

I can see by the light that it must be around noon, although the sunny sky has turned overcast.

Ruby invites me to sit on one of the couches and takes her place across from me.

She presses a button on the side of the table.

The top splits and from below rises a second tabletop that holds our lunch.

Chicken and chunks of oranges cooked in a creamy sauce laid on a bed of pearly white grain, tiny green peas and onions, rolls shaped like flowers, and for dessert, a pudding the color of honey.

I try to imagine assembling this meal myself back home. Chickens are too expensive, but I could make do with a wild turkey. I'd need to shoot a second turkey to trade for an orange. Goat's milk would have to substitute for cream. We can grow peas in the garden. I'd have to get wild onions from the woods. I don't recognize the grain, our own Stamp ration cooks down to an unattractive brown mush. Fancy rolls would mean another trade with the baker, perhaps for two or three squirrels. As for the pudding, I can't even guess what's in it. Days of hunting and gathering for this one meal and even then it would be a poor substitution for the Capitol version.

What must it be like, I wonder, to live in a world where food appears at the press of a button?

How would I spend the hours I now commit to combing the woods for sustenance if it were so easy to come by?

What do they do all day, these people in the Capitol, besides decorating their bodies and waiting around for a new shipment of tributes to roll in and die for their entertainment?

I look up and find Ruby's eyes trained on mine.

"How despicable we must seem to you," She says.

Has she seen this in my face or somehow read my thoughts? She's right, though.

The whole rotten lot of them is despicable.

"No matter," says Ruby.

"So, Emma, about your costume for the opening ceremonies. My partner, Granny, is the stylist for your fellow tribute," She says.

Other tribute?

"Other tribute?" I ask confused.

"Yes, Killian Jones," She says.

I've never heard of him in my life. As far as I remember there's only ever been one tribute from each district. It was more personal that way, at least it felt like that now.

"I don't want to be rude, but…we've never had other tributes before, Ruby." I say.

She smiles, but not condescendingly.

"The Queen wanted something new this year…she wanted to extend the games, I suppose." She says.

"He's from K12," She says.

"No one else was drawn," I trail.

"He was a rebel." Is her response.

So he went to jail? Excellent. Truly grand.

I want to ask her a questions but I don't think she'd have all the answers anyways.

"Anyways, we needed to think of something to represent your district," She says.

For the opening ceremonies, you're supposed to wear something that suggests your Kingdom's principal industry. Kingdom 11, agriculture. Kingdom 4, fishing. Kingdom 3, factories. This means that coming from Kingdom 12, Killian and I will be in some kind of coal miner's getup.

Since the baggy miner's jumpsuits are not particularly becoming, our tributes usually end up in skimpy outfits and hats with headlamps.

One year, our tribute was stark naked and covered in black powder to represent coal dust.

It's always dreadful and does nothing to win favor with the crowd. I prepare myself for the worst.

"So rather than focus on the coal mining itself, we're going to focus on the coal," says Ruby.

Naked and covered in black dust, I think.

"And what do we do with coal? We burn it," says Ruby.

"You're not afraid of fire, are you, Emma?" She sees my expression and grins.

.

A few hours later, I am dressed in what will either be the most sensational or the deadliest costume in the opening ceremonies.

I'm in a simple black unitard that covers me from ankle to neck.

Shiny leather boots lace up to my knees.

But it's the fluttering cape made of streams of orange, yellow, and red and the matching headpiece that define this costume.

Ruby plans to light them on fire just before our chariot rolls into the streets.

"It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Granny and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe," She says.

But I'm not convinced I won't be perfectly barbecued by the time we reach the city's center.

My face is relatively clear of makeup, just a bit of highlighting here and there.

My hair has been brushed out and then braided down my back in my usual style.

"I want the audience to recognize you when you're in the arena," says Ruby dreamily. "Emma, the girl who was on fire."

It crosses my mind that Ruby's calm and normal demeanor masks a complete madman.

I also was about to meet my fellow tribute in a few minutes.

I wasn't nervous, I just didn't know who he could be.

He was a rebel, so perhaps we could get along better than we had before.

Could I trust him?

Obviously we had to share somewhat similar sentiments about the Capitol…or did we?

Had he truly rebelled against the Queen?

The Queen who we pledged to each and every day?

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my raging thoughts.

I see Granny round the corner first, and in tow, she brings a man.

He has a strong jawline, covered in a black scruff. He's somewhat pale, but tanned enough. His hair is dark brown, with highlights of dark blue running through. He's wearing leather pants that are almost obscene, dark black boots, a costume that strongly resembles my own.

His eyes are what catches me: the lightest shade of blue I had ever seen, lighter than the sky above the forest even.

He couldn't have originally been from 12, it just wasn't possible.

He looks up, those pretty blues meeting mine, and he smirks.

Any awe that I held, quickly flies out the window.

"Hello love," His accent drawls.

Definitely not from 12.

His stylist, Granny, and her team accompany him in, and everyone is absolutely giddy with excitement over what a splash we'll make. Except Ruby. He just seems a bit weary as he accepts congratulations.

Killian walks over to me.

"You must be Emma," He says, he touches the pin on my chest, Madge's pin.

I flinch back instinctively and raise an eyebrow.

"Swan?" He asks raising an eyebrow.

When I don't answer he moves on.

"Killian Jones," He says bowing in front of me, in a sort of old world manner.

"Charmed." I say dryly.

"Alright, show time!" Mary Margaret's bright voice calls out as she walks down the stairs.

She smiles and blinks kindly to Killian, who I'm sure has been nothing but overly nice to her.

I could feel this man was _dangerous_.

We're whisked down to the bottom level of the Remake Center, which is essentially a gigantic stable.

The opening ceremonies are about to start.

Pairs of tributes are being loaded into chariots pulled by teams of four horses.

Ours are coal black. Nice touch, Ruby.

The animals are so well trained, no one even needs to guide their reins.

Ruby and Portia direct us into the chariot and carefully arrange our body positions, the drape of our capes, before moving off to consult with each other.

I see Killian looking slightly uncomfortable about the fire, so I decide to try and be cordial.

"What do you think?" I ask Killian. "About the fire?"

"I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine," he says through gritted teeth.

So I had made the correct assumption after knowing him for two minutes, he's somewhat of an open book.

"Deal," I say. Maybe, if we can get them off soon enough, we'll avoid the worst burns.

It's bad though. They'll throw us into the arena no matter what condition we're in.

"Where's…Jefferson?" He asks.

"With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," I say.

Killian grins slightly, before laughing quietly, and quickly.

I don't laugh as I prepare myself to be lit on fire.

The opening music begins. It's easy to hear, blasted around the Capitol.

Massive doors slide open revealing the crowd-lined streets.

The ride lasts about twenty minutes and ends up at the City Circle, where they will welcome us, play the anthem, and escort us into the Training Center, which will be our home/prison until the Games begin.

The tributes from Kingdom 1 ride out in a chariot pulled by snow-white horses. They look so beautiful, spray-painted silver, in tasteful tunics glittering with jewels.

District 1 makes luxury items for the Capitol. You can hear the roar of the crowd.

They are _always_ favorites.

Kingdom 2 gets into position to follow them.

In no time at all, we are approaching the door and I can see that between the overcast sky and evening hour the light is turning gray.

The tributes from Kingdom 11 are just rolling out when Ruby appears with a lighted torch.

"Here we go then," She says, and before we can react he sets our capes on fire.

I gasp, waiting for the heat, but there is only a faint tickling sensation. Ruby climbs up before us and ignites our headdresses.

She lets out a sign of relief.

"It works." Then she gently tucks a hand under my chin.

"Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"

Ruby jumps off the chariot and has one last idea.

She shouts something up at us, but the music drowns her out. She shouts again and gestures.

"What's he saying?" I ask Killian.

For the first time, I look at him and realize that ablaze with the fake flames, he is dazzling.

And I must be, too.

He smirks at me, but I can see the worry in his eyes—but something else: awe.

"I think he said for us to hold hands," says Killian. I raise an eyebrow, thinking this to be a pick up line. He grabs my right hand in his left, and I am amazed at how strong and calloused it feels.

We look to Ruby for confirmation.

She nods and gives a thumbs-up, and that's the last thing I see before we enter the city.

The crowd's initial alarm at our appearance quickly changes to cheers and shouts of

"Kingdom Twelve!" Every head is turned our way, pulling the focus from the three chariots ahead of us.

At first, I'm frozen, but then I catch sight of us on a large television screen and am floored by how breathtaking we look.

In the deepening twilight, the firelight illuminates our faces.

We seem to be leaving a trail of fire off the flowing capes. Ruby was right about the minimal makeup, we both look more attractive but utterly recognizable.

Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you! I hear Ruby's voice in my head.

I lift my chin a bit higher, put on my most winning smile, and wave with my free hand.

I'm glad now I have Killian to clutch for balance, he is so steady, solid as a rock.

But I can't get too comfortable because in a few days, we'll be dead—fighting against one another.

There wasn't camaraderie in the Fairie Games.

There just wasn't.

I keep the smile and step away from Killian, trying to look as independent and strong as I can, molding my face into one of my many masks.

As I gain confidence, I actually blow a few kisses to the crowd.

The people of the Capitol are going nuts, showering us with flowers, shouting our names, our first names, which they have bothered to find on the program.

The pounding music, the cheers, the admiration work their way into my blood, and I can't suppress my excitement. Ruby has given me a great advantage.

No one will forget me.

Not my look, not my name.

Emma.

The girl who was on fire.

We enter the City Circle, I look down at our linked fingers as I loosen my grasp, but he regains his grip on me. "Come on love, let's finish out the show," He says, his eyes surprisingly firelight flickers off his blue eyes, making it look like hot ice, if that was a plausible oxymoron.

I can see that he's trying—not to be a cocky asshole.

I nod once and take a deep breath.

"Okay," I say.

So I keep holding on, but I can't help feeling strange about the way Ruby has linked us together.

I barely knew him, but somehow I felt like I had known him before.

Sometime ago.

There's a trust forming already, a bond that didn't make sense.

A team.

It's not really fair to present us as a team and then lock us into the arena to kill each other.

The twelve chariots fill the loop of the City Circle.

On the buildings that surround the Circle, every window is packed with the most prestigious citizens of the Capitol.

Our horses pull our chariot right up to The Queen's Castle, and we come to a halt. The music ends with a flourish.

The Queen, an extravagant woman, whose dark eyes stare out as her ruby painted lips smile darkly out at her subjects. The ones who she has struck fear into their lives. She gives the official welcome from a balcony above us.

It is traditional to cut away to the faces of the tributes during the speech.

But I can see on the screen that we are getting way more than our share of airtime.

The darker it becomes, the more difficult it is to take your eyes off our flickering.

When the national anthem plays, they do make an effort to do a quick cut around to each pair of tributes, but the camera holds on the Kingdom 12 chariot as it parades around the circle one final time and disappears into the Training Center.

The doors have only just shut behind us when we're engulfed by the prep teams, who are nearly unintelligible as they babble out praise.

As I glance around, I notice a lot of the other tributes are shooting us dirty looks, which confirms what I've suspected, we've literally outshone them all.

Then Ruby and Portia are there, helping us down from the chariot, carefully removing our flaming capes and headdresses.

Granny extinguishes them with some kind of spray from a canister.

I realize I'm still glued to Killian and force my stiff fingers to open. We both massage our hands.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me, love. I like a strong woman," He says with a wink.

I roll my eyes at his flirtation.

"I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you. You should wear flames more often," he says. "They suit you."

I outright scoff at that one.

Ok, I was wrong. He's captain flirtation.

A warning bell goes off in my head.

Don't be so stupid. Killian is planning how to kill you, I remind myself. He is luring you in to make you easy prey. The more likable he is, the more deadly he is.

But because two can play at this game, I grin and walk away swaying my hips.

.

The Training Center has a tower designed exclusively for the tributes and their teams.

This will be our home until the actual Games begin.

Each district has an entire floor.

You simply step onto an elevator and press the number of your district. Easy enough to remember.

I've ridden the elevator a couple of times in the Magicinal Building back in 12.

Once to receive the medal for my father's death and then yesterday to say my final goodbyes to my friends and family.

But that's a dark and creaky thing that moves like a snail and smells of sour milk.

The walls of this elevator are made of crystal so that you can watch the people on the ground floor shrink to ants as you shoot up into the air. It's exhilarating and I'm tempted to ask Mary Margaret if we can ride it again, but somehow that seems childish.

Apparently, Mary Margaret's duties did not conclude at the station.

She and Jefferson will be overseeing us right into the arena.

In a way, that's a plus because at least she can be counted on to corral us around to places on time whereas I haven't seen Jefferson since he agreed to help me on the train.

Probably passed out somewhere.

Mary Margaret, on the other hand, seems to be flying high.

We're the first team she's ever chaperoned that made a splash at the opening ceremonies.

She's complimentary about not just our costumes but how we conducted ourselves.

And, to hear her tell it, Mary Margaret knows everyone who's anyone in the Capitol and has been talking us up all day, trying to win us sponsors.

"I've been very mysterious, though," she says, her eyes squint half shut. "Because, of course, Jefferson hasn't bothered to tell me your strategies. But I've done my best with what I had to work with. How Emma sacrificed herself for her brother. How you've both successfully struggled to overcome the barbarism of your district."

Barbarism? That's ironic coming from a woman helping to prepare us for slaughter. And what's she basing our success on? Surface material?

"Everyone has their reservations, naturally. You being rom the coal district. But I said, and this was very clever of me, I said, 'Well, if you put enough pressure on coal it turns to pearls!'" Mary Margaret beams at us so brilliantly that we have no choice but to respond enthusiastically to her cleverness even though it's wrong.

Killian shoots me a look from the corner of his eye, but I don't say anything to respond to it.

Coal doesn't turn to pearls. They grow in shellfish. Possibly she meant coal turns to diamonds, but that's only if a special machine is used.

"Unfortunately, I can't seal the sponsor deals for you. Only Jefferson can do that," says Mary Margaret grimly. "But don't worry, I'll get him to the table at gunpoint if necessary."

Although lacking in many departments, Mary Margaret has a certain determination I have to admire.

My quarters are larger than our entire house back home. They are plush, like the train car, but also have so many automatic gadgets that I'm sure I won't have time to press all the buttons. The shower alone has a panel with more than a hundred options you can choose regulating water temperature, pressure, soaps, shampoos, scents, oils, and massaging sponges. When you step out on a mat, heaters come on that blow-dry your body. Instead of struggling with the knots in my wet hair, I merely place my hand on a box that sends a current through my scalp, untangling, parting, and drying my hair almost instantly. It floats down around my shoulders in a glossy curtain.

I program the closet for an outfit to my taste. The windows zoom in and out on parts of the city at my command. You need only whisper a type of food from a gigantic menu into a mouthpiece and it appears, hot and steamy, before you in less than a minute.

I walk around the room eating goose liver and puffy bread until there's a knock on the door.

Mary's calling me to dinner.

Killian, Ruby and Granny are standing out on a balcony that overlooks the Capitol when we enter the dining room.

I'm glad to see the stylists, particularly after I hear that Jefferson will be joining us.

A meal presided over by just Mary Margaret and Jefferson is bound to be a disaster.

Besides, dinner isn't really about food, it's about planning out our strategies, and Ruby and Portia have already proven how valuable they are.

A silent young man dressed in a white tunic offers us all stemmed glasses of wine.

I think about turning it down, but I've never had wine, except the homemade stuff my mother uses for coughs, and when will I get a chance to try it again?

I take a sip of the tart, dry liquid and secretly think it could be improved by a few spoonfuls of honey.

Jefferson shows up just as dinner is being served.

It looks as if he's had his own stylist because he's clean and groomed and about as sober as I've ever seen him.

He doesn't refuse the offer of wine, but when he starts in on his soup, I realize it's the first time I've ever seen him eat.

Maybe he really will pull himself together long enough to help us.

Ruby and Granny seem to have a civilizing effect on Jefferson and Mary Margaret.

At least they're addressing each other decently.

And they both have nothing but praise for our stylists' opening act.

While they make small talk, I concentrate on the meal. Mushroom soup, bitter greens with tomatoes the size of peas, rare roast beef sliced as thin as paper, noodles in a green sauce, cheese that melts on your tongue served with sweet blue grapes.

The servers, all young people dressed in white tunics like the one who gave us wine, move wordlessly to and from the table, keeping the platters and glasses full.

About halfway through my glass of wine, my head starts feeling foggy, so I change to water instead.

I don't like the feeling and hope it wears off soon.

How Jefferson can stand walking around like this full-time is a mystery.

I try to focus on the talk, which has turned to our interview costumes, when a girl sets a gorgeous-looking cake on the table and deftly lights it. It blazes up and then the flames flicker around the edges awhile until it finally goes out.

I have a moment of doubt.

"What makes it burn? Is it alcohol?" I say, looking up at the girl.

"That's the last thing I wa — oh! I know you!"

I can't place a name or time to the girl's face. But I'm certain of it. The dark red hair, the striking features, the porcelain white skin.

But even as I utter the words, I feel my insides contracting with anxiety and guilt at the sight of her, and while I can't pull it up, I know some bad memory is associated with her.

The expression of terror that crosses her face only adds to my confusion and unease.

She shakes her head in denial quickly and hurries away from the table.

When I look back, the four adults are watching me like hawks.

"Don't be ridiculous, Emma. How could you possibly know an Avox?" snaps Mary Margaret. "The very thought."

"What's an Avox?" I ask stupidly.

"Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so she can't speak," says Jefferson. "She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her." Our mentor continues.

Killian's eyes burn into the side of my head.

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order," says Mary Margaret.

"Of course, you don't really know her."

But I do know her. And now that Jefferson has mentioned the word _traitor_ I remember from where.

The disapproval is so high I could never admit it.

"No, I guess not, I just —" I stammer, and the wine is not helping.

Killian snaps his fingers. "Delly Cartwright. That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Delly."

Delly Cartwright is a pasty-faced, lumpy girl with yellowish hair who looks about as much like our server as a beetle does a butterfly.

She may also be the friendliest person on the planet — she smiles constantly at everybody in school, even me.

I have never seen the girl with the red hair smile.

But I jump on Killian's suggestion gratefully.

"Of course, that's who I was thinking of. It must be the hair," I say.

"Something about the eyes, too," says Killian.

The energy at the table relaxes.

"Oh, well. If that's all it is," says Ruby.

"And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut." The dark eyed woman explains.

We eat the cake and move into a sitting room to watch the replay of the opening ceremonies that's being broadcast. A few of the other couples make a nice impression, but none of them can hold a candle to us. Even our own party lets out an "Ahh!" as they show us coming out of the Remake Center.

"Whose idea was the hand holding?" asks Jefferson.

"Ruby's," says Granny, looking affectionately to the girl.

"Just the perfect touch of rebellion," says Jefferson.

"Very nice."

Rebellion? I have to think about that one a moment. But when I remember the other couples, standing stiffly apart, never touching or acknowledging each other, as if their fellow tribute did not exist, as if the Games had already begun, I know what Jefferson means.

Presenting ourselves not as adversaries but as friends has distinguished us as much as the fiery costumes.

"Tomorrow morning is the first training session. Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it," says Jefferson to Killian and I.

"Now go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk."

Killian and I walk together down the corridor to our rooms.

When we get to my door, he leans against the frame, not blocking my entrance exactly but insisting I pay attention to him.

"How's about we get to know one another better?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. I go to push past him but I can't: he's about six inches taller than myself, putting me right under the crook of his arm.

I look up at him with a glare.

"Try something new darling it's called trust," He says, those eyes boring into my own.

"Have you been on the roof yet?" I shake my head. "Ruby showed me. You can practically see the whole city. The wind's a bit loud, though."

I translate this into "No one will overhear us talking" in my head.

"Sure," I say.

I follow him to a flight of stairs that lead to the roof. There's a small dome-shaped room with a door to the outside. As we step into the cool, windy evening air, I catch my breath at the view. The Capitol twinkles like a vast field of fireflies.

"Come see the garden."

On the other side of the dome, they've built a garden with flower beds and potted trees. From the branches hang hundreds of wind chimes, which account for the tinkling I heard. Here in the garden, on this windy night, it's enough to drown out two people who are trying not to be heard.

I look up at him.

"You aren't from 12," I accuse.

He looks up, and grins, a slow lazy thing.

"Correct, Miss Swan," he says, nodding to the pin.

It sounds different coming from him—he doesn't know the story, yet he calls me that?

I am too tired to care or call him out.

I drop my fingers to a flower, a rose, to be exact. A white one.

"Where are you from then?" I ask, looking up.

He looks over the city below, his eyes far off.

"Somewhere far away," Is his only answer.

"You're from 12, obviously," He says, no smile on his face, or a teasing note to his voice.

"Yes. I live with my mother and younger brother," I said.

"I know. You love your brother very much," He says.

"How do you know that?" I ask in a challenge.

He turns to face me fully.

"You're somewhat of an open book," He admits.

I stare at him. Killian Jones was dangerous-very dangerous.

* * *

**an:/ and ladies and gents this is happening-and I am very proud of such happenings. Not to sound greedy, but I LOVE YOUR REVIEWS! Please remember I am only a teenager writing this-so be gentle, but I am always open to honesty. :) Thanks again!**


	4. Chapter 4

**an:/ Wow, wow, WOW you guys are so amazing! I am so happy with the reviews and follows. :) It makes the prospect of going back to school a little easier, quite honestly. This is the next chapter, Quite a long one. Hehe. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, nor do I own any of the characters created by OUAT. Thank you.**

* * *

Abandonment Under A Walnut Tree

_Something seems to have gnawed that walnut leaf._

_You face your wrinkles, daily, in the mirror._

_But the wrinkles are so slimming, they rather flatter._

_Revel in the squat luck of that unhappy tree,_

_who can't take a mate from among the oaks or gums._

_Ah, but if I could I would, the mirror version says, _

_because he speaks to you. He is your truer self_

_all dopey in the glass. He wouldn't stand alone_

_for hours, without at least a feel for the gall of oaks,_

_the gum tree bud caps, the sweet gum's prickly balls._

_Oh, he's a caution, that reflection man. _

_He's made himself a study in the trees._

_You is a strewn shattered leaf I'd step on, he says._

_Do whatever it is you'd like to do. Be quick._

D.A. Powell

.

.

.

I'm somewhere between the world of waking and the world of sleeping when I realize where I know Killian Jones from.

It's his eyes that haunt me.

During the coldest, most harsh January we had ever seen, the one right after my father passed, Killian Jones and I met for the first time.

No words were exchanged between us: Just actions.

I was hunting, in the woods.

The cold hard rain was seeping into my bones.

Graham was tending with his brothers in the mines, so I was alone today.

I was having trouble finding food of any kind.

My mother had stopped working, Henry's goat was too cold to produce enough milk.

All that was left was me: me and the hunt.

I was reckless, going so deep into the woods I almost couldn't find my way back.

I managed to find a mountain cat, a small one.

What I didn't hear or see was the female lurking behind me, the mother cat.

She pounced, and I turned just in time to see her leap in the air.

But suddenly a knife was flung at the cat, a knife that wasn't from me, and certainly not from Graham.

I was fearful it was a Queen's-Men, coming to take me away.

But in the forest, stood a man: he was at least ten years older than me, if not more as he stood.

His hair was wild, unkempt.

His clothes were muddy and coated in a dark red liquid which looked suspiciously like blood.

His face was covered in a thick beard, as he stared down into my eyes.

His eyes—the lightest shade of blue, with flecks of what looked like silver dashing through.

I felt like he was staring into my soul—my very being.

I wondered in that moment what I looked like: did I look like the strong girl I portrayed myself as, or did I look like the scared girl I really was?

I had never seen him before, not in my life.

He had saved my life.

He could have easily let me die—taken the small lion for himself.

No one would have ever found me, because not to many people left 12.

But he showed me mercy, he showed me compassion.

I noticed there were weals on his face, some still bleeding, others fading into scars.

His eyes were red, as if he had been crying.

I don't think either of us knew what to say. I didn't know how to say thank you, because I felt like it was a quiet moment and words would ruin it, so I bite my tongue for the words that desperately wanted to spill forth.

He gave me a smirk, and turned away, fading into the heavy snow.

I brought home the two lions, trading some for wool, but…we ate.

We ate the bread that the baker had given me, we ate the meat, cooked—a rarity in 12.

All because he hadn't let me die.

.

I wake up, my chest moving with my breaths, as my face is covered in a fine layer of sweat.

Killian Jones had saved my life.

No expectations.

Nothing given in response.

He saved me.

That had to count for something, right?

.

Dawn is breaking through the windows.

The Capitol has a misty, haunted air.

My head aches and I must have bitten into the side of my cheek in the night. My tongue probes the ragged flesh and I taste blood.

Slowly, I drag myself out of bed and into the shower.

I arbitrarily punch buttons on the control board and end up hopping from foot to foot as alternating jets of icy cold and steaming hot water assault me. Then I'm deluged in lemony foam that I have to scrape off with a heavy bristled brush.

Oh, well. At least my blood is flowing.

When I'm dried and moisturized with lotion, I find an outfit has been left for me at the front of the closet. Tight black pants, a long-sleeved burgundy tunic, and leather shoes. I put my hair in the single braid down my back.

This is the first time since the morning of the reaping that I resemble myself. No fancy hair and clothes, no flaming capes. Just me. Looking like I could be headed for the woods.

It calms me.

I feel like Graham is right on the side of me, touching my shoulder and telling me where we're hunting today.

I walk out into the dining area, noticing that no one else must be awake yet.

I let out a sigh of relief.

I didn't nessecerily enjoy being alone, but the Capitol was so busy, too busy.

I enjoyed my moments of solitude.

A young man, an Avox, stands at attention by the spread. When I ask if I can serve myself, he nods assent. I load a plate with eggs, sausages, batter cakes covered in thick orange preserves, slices of pale purple melon. As I gorge myself, I watch the sun rise over the Capitol. I have a second plate of hot grain smothered in beef stew.

I grab a mug of hot chocolate and sprinkle cinnamon in it.

My mind wanders to my mother and Henry.

They must be up.

My mother getting their breakfast of mush. Henry milking his goat before school.

Just two mornings ago, I was home. Can that be right? Yes, just two.

And now how empty the house feels, even from a distance.

What did they say last night about my fiery debut at the Games?

Did it give them hope, or simply add to their terror when they saw the reality of twenty-four tributes circled together, knowing only one could live?

Jefferson and Killian come in, breaking my thoughts.

I look up as the men bid me good morning and fill their plates.

It makes me irritated that Killian is wearing exactly the same outfit I am.

I need to say something to Ruby.

This twins act is going to blow up in out faces once the Games begin. Surely, they must know this.

Then I remember Jefferson telling me to do exactly what the stylists tell me to do.

If it was anyone but Ruby, I might be tempted to ignore him.

But after last night's triumph, I don't have a lot of room to criticize her choices.

I'm nervous about the training. There will be three days in which all the tributes practice together.

On the last afternoon, we'll each get a chance to perform in private before the Gamemakers.

That's where we get our ratings—for the whole world to see.

The thought of meeting the other tributes face-to-face makes me queasy.

I turn the roll I have just taken from the basket over and over in my hands, but my appetite is gone.

Jefferson clears his throat, and Killian and I snap our heads in his direction.

He takes a flask from his pocket and takes a long pull on it and leans his elbows on the table.

"So, let's get down to business. Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now."

"Why would you coach us separately?" I ask.

"Say if you had a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," Jefferson says, sniffing slightly.

I look to Killian, and I can't get the memory last night out of my head.

It's almost as if he knows my thoughts, but he turns to Jefferson.

"I don't have any secret skills," he says. "And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels."

I look directly at him.

I decide its best not to ask how, but I was certain I had never done business with Killian. Ever.

"You can coach us together," I tell Jefferson. Killian nods.

"All right, so give me some idea of what you can do,"

I already know you're handy with a knife," says Jefferson.

"Not really. But I can hunt," I say. "With a bow and arrow."

"And you're good?" asks Jefferson.

I have to think about it.

I've been putting food on the table for four years.

That's no small task. I'm not as good as my father was, but he'd had more practice. I've better aim than Graham, but I've had more practice.

He's a genius with traps and snares.

"I'm all right," I say.

"She's excellent," says Killian.

"She hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells the butcher. She can even bring down deer." Killian says, looking at Jefferson.

I am taken by surprise by this. First, that he ever noticed. Second, that he's talking me up.

"What are you doing?" I ask him suspiciously.

"What are you doing? If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of. Don't underrate yourself," Killian says, almost…encouragingly.

It's as if he's a different person now—all cockiness aside, it was almost like he _genuinely_ wanted to help me.

Which brought me back to my original point: Just _who is _Killian Jones.

A rebel?

But Jefferson had said last night that rebel's, traitors, were Avox's.

Killian Jones could definitely speak.

But Ruby had no reason to lie to me.

I don't know why, but this rubs me the wrong way.

"What about you? I've seen your knife skills," I say raising an eyebrow.

He doesn't meet my eye.

Now it's out in the open that I know _exactly _who he is.

"Plus, he can wrestle." I say, remembering the lion.

"What use is that? How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?" says Killian in disgust.

Why was he trying to make me look so good?

I didn't get it.

"There's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife, and you'll at least stand a chance. If I get jumped, I'm dead!" I can hear my voice rising in anger.

Now why was I getting flustered?

Killian stares at me, his eyes dark and stormy.

"You survive, you are a survivor, and nothing will change my stance on that." Killian snaps, irratably.

He raises his hand up, and I notice a tattoo on his arm.

_Milah_.

I wonder briefly if he had a love back at home.

Suddenly I'm in the woods and I can feel the chill of the rain running down my back, the hollowness in my belly. I sound eleven years old when I speak. "But only because someone helped me."

I know he remembers that day, too. But he just shrugs.

"People will help you in the arena. They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you."

I snort.

"They'd help you too, ladies love a good looking man," I say rolling my eyes.

I realize what's out of my mouth, and the old Killian Jones is back.

"Nice to know how you really feel love," He teases.

His smirk doesn't reach his eyes.

I briefly wonder if it ever has.

Killian looks to Jefferson.

"She has no idea. The effect she can have." He runs his fingernail along the wood grain in the table, refusing to look at me.

What on earth does he mean?

People help me? When we were dying of starvation, no one helped me!

No one except him.

Once I had something to barter with, things changed.

I'm a tough trader. Or am I?

What effect do I have?

That I'm weak and needy?

Is he suggesting that I got good deals because people pitied me?

I try to think if this is true.

Perhaps some of the merchants were a little generous in their trades, but I always attributed that to their long-standing relationship with my father.

Besides, my game is first-class.

No one pitied me!

I am glowering at the table.

All previous notions aside, my gut was normally right: Killian Jones was _dangerous_.

For a few minutes there, he seemed…kind. Compassionate.

And then it was gone. In the blink of an eye, and he was back to being cocky.

Jefferson clears his throat,breaking up the thick silence.

"Well, then. Emma, there's no guarantee they'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

"I know a few basic snares," I mutter.

"That may be significant in terms of food," says Jefferson.

"And Killian, she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to a player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for both of you. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Learn to tie a decent knot. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?" says Jefferson.

"Crystal." Killian says, his voice semi-dark.

I am still staring down at my plate, which I suppose Jefferson takes as a yes.

"One last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every minute," says Jefferson.

We both start to object, but Jefferson slams his hand on the table.

"Every minute! It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Mary Margaret at Eleven to go to training." He says, his voice angry and the most emotion filled I had seen since I met him.

Killian stands up at the same time I do, as we glower at one another.

It's such a joke!

Killian and I going along pretending to be friends! Talking up each other's strengths, insisting the other take credit for their abilities. Because, in fact, at some point, we're going to have to knock it off and accept we're bitter adversaries.

We _aren't _friends.

We're two people who unfortunately will have to stare death in the face.

It's my own fault, I guess, for telling him he didn't have to coach us separately. But that didn't mean I wanted to do everything with Killian.

Who, by the way, clearly doesn't want to be partnering up with me, either.

Killian stalks away and I go after him.

I needed answers and I wanted them _now_.

I wasn't going to let him run from this. I wait until I hear Jefferson leave, before round housing on him, and slamming him into a door, my forearm pressed against his throat.

Could he have easily pushed me off? Yes.

His cold eyes stare into mine.

"What was that about?" I ask, my voice a hiss.

"Whatever do you mean love?" He asks, his eyes narrowed, the smirk on his face not matching his eyes.

"You know exactly what I mean, Jones. Don't fuck with me, not now." I snarl.

"It meant exactly what you think it meant, lass. You don't know me, I don't know you. Let's keep it that way, yeah?" He asks.

He's trying to run, but I press harder into his throat.

"I know you saved me when you didn't have to. I know you could have left me to die out there. I was eleven and you were…running from whatever the hell it is you were running from." I say narrowing my eyes.

He snorts.

"I took pity on you, Swan. Nothing more, nothing less."

But there was more, so much more to it.

I step back from him, and look up to him, my eyes leveling on his.

"I don't care what you do, just don't screw up my chances." I say sharply before turning and leaving.

I miss his final comment: "That would be the exact opposite of what I'm trying to do, Emma."

.

It's almost ten. I clean my teeth and smooth back my hair again. Anger temporarily blocked out my nervousness about meeting the other tributes, but now I can feel my anxiety rising again. By the time I meet Mary Margaret and Killian at the elevator, I catch myself biting my nails. I stop at once.

The actual training rooms are below ground level of our building.

With these elevators, the ride is less than a minute.

The doors open into an enormous gymnasium filled with various weapons and obstacle courses. Although it's not yet ten, we're the last ones to arrive. The other tributes are gathered in a tense circle. They each have a cloth square with their district number on it pinned to their shirts.

While someone pins the number 12 on my back, I do a quick assessment.

Killian and I are the only two dressed alike.

As soon as we join the circle, the head trainer, a tall, athletic woman named Mulan steps up and begins to

explain the training schedule. Experts in each skill will remain at their stations. We will be free to travel from area to area as we choose, per our mentor's instructions. Some of the stations teach survival skills, others fighting techniques. We are forbidden to engage in any combative exercise with another tribute. There are assistants on hand if we want to practice with a partner.

When Mulan begins to read down the list of the skill stations, my eyes can't help flitting around to the other tributes. It's the first time we've been assembled, on level ground, in simple clothes. My heart sinks. Almost all of the boys and at least half of the girls are bigger than I am, even though many of the tributes have never been fed properly. You can see it in their bones, their skin, the hollow look in their eyes. I may be smaller naturally, but overall my family's resourcefulness has given me an edge in that area.

I stand straight, and while I'm thin, I'm strong. The meat and plants from the woods combined with the exertion it took to get them have given me a healthier body than most of those I see around me.

The exceptions are the kids from the wealthier districts, the volunteers, the ones who have been fed and trained throughout their lives for this moment. The tributes from 1, 2, and 4 traditionally have this look about them.

It's technically against the rules to train tributes before they reach the Capitol but it happens every year. In K12, we call them the Career Tributes, or just the Careers.

And like as not, the winner will be one of them.

The slight advantage I held coming into the Training Center, my fiery entrance last night, seems to vanish in the presence of my competition.

The other tributes were jealous of us, but not because we were amazing, because our stylists were.

Now I see nothing but contempt in the glances of the Career Tributes.

Each must have fifty to a hundred pounds on me. They project arrogance and brutality.

When Mulan releases us, they head straight for the deadliest-looking weapons in the gym and handle them with ease.

I'm thinking that it's lucky I'm a fast runner when Killian nudges my arm and I jump.

He is still beside me, per Jefferson's instructions. His expression is sober, another 180 from the rage this morning. "Where would you like to start?"

I look around at the Career Tributes who are showing off, clearly trying to intimidate the field. Then at the others, the underfed, the incompetent, shakily having their first lessons with a knife or an ax.

"Suppose we tie some knots," I say.

He grins, and it's gone as quickly as it was there.

He nods, and lets me lead the way.

I can feel his eyes on my ass.

Lovely.

We cross to an empty station where the trainer seems pleased to have students.

You get the feeling that the knot-tying class is not the Fairie Games hot spot.

When he realizes I know something about snares, he shows us a simple, excellent trap that will leave a human competitor dangling by a leg from a tree.

I concentrate on this skill for over an hour, while Killian is making more advanced knots.

It's as if he's done something like that before.

I thought I was alright with a snare, and here he was making knots like it was a second nature.

"You're quite good at those," Killian says, tossing me a side ways glance.

I've been preoccupied with watching the boy from District 2 send a spear through a dummy's heart from fifteen yards.

"Thank you," I murmur quietly.

He also excels at the navigation table.

"I used to chart stars, you know…the maps in the Maginical Building," He says.

I do.

Henry always liked reading the stories behind the stars when we went into that area of town, and would make me stop every time.

I couldn't blame him, they were beautiful.

"It's lovely. If only you could give someone the wrong star," I say snarkily.

He only grins after that.

So the next three days pass with Killian and I going quietly from station to station.

We do pick up some valuable skills, from starting fires, to knife throwing, to making shelter.

Despite Jefferson's order to appear mediocre, Killian excels in hand-to-hand combat, and I sweep the edible plants test without blinking an eye.

We steer clear of archery and weightlifting though, wanting to save those for our private sessions.

The Gamemakers appeared early on the first day.

Twenty or so men and women dressed in deep purple robes.

They sit in the elevated stands that surround the gymnasium, sometimes wandering about to watch us, jotting down notes, other times eating at the endless banquet that has been set for them, ignoring the lot of us.

But they do seem to be keeping their eye on the K12 tributes.

It's slightly unnerving.

Several times I've looked up to find one fixated on me.

They consult with the trainers during our meals as well. We see them all gathered together when we come back.

Breakfast and dinner are served on our floor, but at lunch the twenty-four of us eat in a dining room off the gymnasium.

Food is arranged on carts around the room and you serve yourself. The Career Tributes tend to gather rowdily around one table, as if to prove their superiority, that they have no fear of one another and consider the rest of us beneath notice.

Most of the other tributes sit alone, like lost sheep.

No one says a word to us.

Killian and I eat together, and since Jefferson keeps dogging us about it, try to keep up a friendly conversation during the meals.

It's not easy to find a topic.

Talking of home is painful.

Talking of the present unbearable.

One day Killian starts to talk about fish.

Fish, a valuable protein.

Easy to eat and easy to clean and catch, he names the fish from around the Districts.

The salmon from K7, the catfish from K4.

"All right, I'll keep smiling pleasantly and you talk," says Killian.

It's wearing us both out, Jefferson's direction to be friendly.

Because ever since I slammed him against the door door, there's been a chill in the air between us.

But we have our orders.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was chased by a bear?" I ask.

"No, but it sounds fascinating," says Killian.

I try and animate my face as I recall the event, a true story, in which I'd foolishly challenged a black bear over the rights to a beehive.

Killian laughs and asks questions right on cue. He's much better at this than I am.

On the second day, while we're taking a shot at spear throwing, he whispers to me. "I think we have a shadow."

I throw my spear, which I'm not too bad at actually, if I don't have to throw too far, and see the little boy from K11 standing back a bit, watching us.

He's the twelve-year-old, the one who reminded me so of Henry in stature.

Up close he looks about ten.

He has bright, dark, eyes and satiny brown skin and stands tilted up on his toes with her arms slightly extended to her sides, as if ready to take wing at the slightest sound. It's impossible not to think of a bird.

I pick up another spear while Killian throws.

"I think his name's David," he says softly.

I bite my lip. David is a small yellow flower that grows in the Meadow that we named after my father.

"What can we do about it?" I ask him, more harshly than I intended.

"Nothing to do," he says back. "Just making conversation."

He slips up and joins us at different stations. Like me, he's clever with plants, climbs swiftly, and has good aim. He can hit the target every time with a slingshot. But what is a slingshot against a 220-pound male with a sword?

Not any.

Back on the District 12 floor, Jefferson and Mary Margaret grill us throughout breakfast and dinner about every moment of the day.

What we did, who watched us, how the other tributes size up.

Ruby and Portia aren't around, so there's no one to add any sanity to the meals.

Not that Jefferson and Mary Margaret are fighting anymore.

Instead they seem to be of one mind, determined to whip us into shape.

Full of endless directions about what we should do and not do in training.

Killian is more patient, but I become fed up and surly.

When we finally escape to bed on the second night, Killian mumbles, "Someone ought to get Jefferson a drink, and while they're at it, get me a good spot of rum, too."

I make a sound that is somewhere between a snort and a laugh. Then catch myself. It's messing with my mind too much, trying to keep straight when we're supposedly friends and when we're not. At least when we get into the arena, I'll know where we stand. "Don't. Don't let's pretend when there's no one around."

"All right, Emma," he says tiredly. After that, we only talk in front of people.

On the third day of training, they start to call us out of lunch for our private sessions with the Gamemakers. Kingdom by kingdom, first the boy, then the girl tribute.

As usual, Kingdom 12 is slated to go last. We linger in the dining room, unsure where else to go. No one comes back once they have left. As the room empties, the pressure to appear friendly lightens.

When David leaves, followed by an older girl, there isn't anyone left in the room.

Just Killian and I.

We sit in silence until they summon Killian. He rises.

"Remember what Jefferson said about being sure to throw the weights." The words come out of my mouth without permission.

"Thanks. I will," he says. "You . . . shoot straight."

I nod. I don't know why I said anything at all. Although if I'm going to lose, I'd rather Killian win than the others. Better for our district, for my mother and Henry.

After about fifteen minutes, they call my name.

I smooth my hair, set my shoulders back, and walk into the gymnasium.

Instantly, I know I'm in trouble.

They've been here too long, the Gamemakers. Sat through twenty-three other demonstrations. Had too much to wine, most of them. Want more than anything to go home.

There's nothing I can do but continue with the plan.

I walk to the archery station.

Oh, the weapons! I've been itching to get my hands on them for days!

Bows made of wood and plastic and metal and materials I can't even name.

Arrows with feathers cut in flawless uniform lines.

I choose a bow, string it, and sling the matching quiver of arrows over my shoulder. There's a shooting range, but it's much too limited. Standard bull's-eyes and human silhouettes. I walk to the center of the gymnasium and pick my first target.

The dummy used for knife practice. Even as I pull back on the bow I know something is wrong.

The string's tighter than the one I use at home.

The arrow's more rigid.

I miss the dummy by a couple of inches and lose what little attention I had been commanding.

For a moment, I'm humiliated, then I head back to the bull's-eye.

I shoot again and again until I get the feel of these new weapons.

Back in the center of the gymnasium, I take my initial position and skewer the dummy right through the heart.

Then I sever the rope that holds the sandbag for boxing, and the bag splits open as it slams to the ground. Without pausing, I shoulder-roll forward, come up on one knee, and send an arrow into one of the hanging lights high above the gymnasium floor. A shower of sparks bursts from the fixture.

It's excellent shooting.

I turn to the Gamemakers.

A few are nodding approval, but the majority of them are fixated on a roast pig that has just arrived at their banquet table.

Suddenly I am furious, that with my life on the line, they don't even have the decency to pay attention to me.

That I'm being upstaged by a dead pig.

My heart starts to pound, I can feel my face burning.

Without thinking, I pull an arrow from my quiver and send it straight at the Gamemakers' table.

I hear shouts of alarm as people stumble back.

The arrow skewers the apple in the pig's mouth and pins it to the wall behind it.

Everyone stares at me in disbelief.

"Thank you for your consideration," I say. Then I give a slight bow and walk straight toward the exit without being dismissed.

* * *

**an:/ Oh no she din't. Yes, she did, folks! Emma is firey, and things are about to get shaken up a bit. This is where my storyline pretty much diverts from Ms. Collins'. Of course I will follow most events and characters but I do appreciate the reviews because REVIEWS ARE LOVE LIKE TINY ANGEL KISSES ON MY HAND TELLING ME TO KEEP WRITING! Yes, yes they are. Update should be up soon, so kisses! **


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